


Of Monkeys and Margaritas

by verbivore8642



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Confessions, F/M, FitzSimmons is Skye's OTP, Fluff, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Matchmaking, Pining, Post-Finale, pseudo AU where everyone's happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbivore8642/pseuds/verbivore8642
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team relaxes in their hotel bar after a mission, and Skye notices that Fitz can't take his eyes off of Simmons.</p><p>A Fitzsimmons ficlet, in which Skye is the proverbial 'ship captain and Trip is her first mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Why don’t you grab a drink?” 

Skye wasn’t sure if Fitz couldn’t hear her over the cheesy pseudo-Island pop and early-evening bar chatter, or if he was just ignoring her, but he didn’t respond. She followed his gaze to where Simmons was sitting in a faux-bamboo booth, surrounded by the cheerful and outgoing bar-goers who seemed to have adopted her.

Simmons was laughing, acting free and giddy in a way that Skye hadn’t seen before. Skye wondered when Simmons had last been in a bar and let herself be flirted with; she couldn’t picture either of them doing much outside of work when they were in school. The purple lei lying prettily around Simmons’ shoulders slipped to the side, and Skye saw Fitz’s eye twitch. 

“FITZ.”

He jumped slightly and coughed, looking anywhere but at Simmons’ booth. “Wha-what?”

She gestured to the lei-wearing tiki bartender over the top of her laptop. “Get a drink, Fitz.” 

“I’m not thirsty.” He folded his arms back up and resolutely leaned against the wall, ignoring the plastic plant leaves that were clearly uncomfortably poking into his side.

Skye tried not to grin. “You said you wanted to come to the bar —“

“You’re working. It’s not fair if we’re having fun while you’re finishing up those reports.” 

“I’ll be done in a minute - go sit with Simmons, or see what May and Coulson are up to. — Where did those two go, anyway?”

Fitz shifted subtly, as if he was trying to get around the plastic palm tree that was impeding his view of Simmons. “They got a pitcher of something called Purple Rain and disappeared onto the balcony ten minutes ago.” 

“Oh. Maybe - maybe you shouldn’t go find May and Coulson after all. Scratch that.” 

Now Simmons was surrounded on both sides by two ridiculously attractive people, and Skye could practically feel the jealousy rolling off of Fitz. The man swept Simmons’ hair out of her face and she giggled and blushed, making her natural beauty shine out against all the other over-made-up, plasticky beach babes in the bar. 

“What is she  _doing_?” He muttered to himself, having evidently forgotten that Skye was sitting right next to him. 

“Fitz. Look at me.” She poked him in the stomach, hard. He squeaked, glared at her, and then folded back up into the position that he seemed to think make him look nonchalant. (It actually made him look like a sulky kindergardener whose favorite picture book was being read to someone else, but that wasn’t an observation she planned on sharing.) 

“What?”

“If you don’t get yourself a drink right _-now-_  I’m going to tell Coulson about that time you accidentally scratched Lola’s undercarriage and covered it up with my nail polish.”

For a moment, Skye wondered if Fitz was going to call her bluff (she wasn’t _that_  mean), but then he made a small huff and rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be at the bar if you… you know. Right.” He strode purposefully over to the crowded bar, only tripping once on a bamboo-leg stool. Skye noted that he was keeping Simmons in his peripheral vision as he settled himself at the edge of the counter and waited for the bartender to catch his eye. A passing waitress tossed a lei around his neck and Fitz just set his jaw and screwed his eyes briefly shut. 

Skye chuckled, and guessed that he was counting down from ten - and resisting the urge to pull out one of the defensive gadgets she was sure he had in his pockets. She clicked out a few more commands on the computer and grinned; she was only moments away from the margarita she’d been promising herself all day. After dealing with a submersible yacht that was so old it didn’t have wifi, and then having the crap scared out of her by an overeager manta ray, she more than deserved her very girly, very alcoholic, drink. 

“Strawberry or mango?”

Skye turned around to see Trip holding two  _gigantic_  margaritas, and squealed (just a little bit) in delight. “You are officially my new favorite person.” She slapped her laptop closed and grabbed for the bright pink one. “How did you—“

“Know that you wanted a margarita?” Trip put his drink on the table, flipped around the flimsy bamboo chair, and sat down backwards, facing Skye. “You’ve been muttering to yourself about wanting a margarita since we discovered the plugs on the yacht didn’t fit your charger - which was at about 11 this morning.” 

Skye narrowed her eyes and sucked on the flamingo-shaped straw. “Never again, Trip. Never again.”

Trip laughed, one of those hearty belly-laughs that made the team feel sort of like home again. They both nursed their drinks in companionable silence for a moment, and Skye’s eyes drifted back to where Simmons was being fawned over. Then Skye noticed that Fitz was standing at the bar, definitely _not_  getting a drink as he tried to subtly stare over his shoulder at Simmons, and Skye snorted margarita out of her nose.

Bemused, Trip handed her a pile of paper napkins from the table over and grinned as she mopped herself up. “Okay, what the hell just happened?” 

Skye sighed and chuckled. “My sport for the evening has been watching the geek-monkey mating dance.” She nodded towards Fitz, whose fist was clenched so tightly around his full pint that Skye could practically see the popping veins from the other side of the room.

Trip followed Fitz’s glance to where Simmons was now standing and raised his eyebrows. “I guess I should’ve seen that one coming.” 

“My theory is that I if I can get Fitz to drink enough, maybe I can needle him into  _finally_  making a move.” Skye leaned back, giving up on her once-yellow shirt, and sipped her drink. “Or maybe if I pretend to be drunk and kiss Fitz, Simmons will finally snap to attention.”

He grinned, and eyed her. “Snap to attention?”

Skye made a face. “I’ve been spending too much time with you and May.” 

Trip balanced the chair forward on its two back legs and leaned his chin on his hands. “Both ops sound promising to me. Which’re you gonna go with?” 

Skye downed the last of her clearly-too-small margarita and tapped the rim. “Get me another one of these bad boys and I’ll let you know.” She looked down at the laptop and groaned. “But, first, I need to head up to my room and lock this thing away.”

Trip nodded. “Any instructions in the meantime?” Skye tilted her head, confused, feeling the tequila seep pleasantly into her head. “This is your op, agent.” They both laughed.

“See if you can get Simmons away from the beach harpies - I don’t like the way that blonde jock has been eyeing her,” Skye said, joking, as she packed up the laptop and charger. “And keep an eye on target Fitz.”

“Yes, m’am. Operation Geek-Mate is officially a go!” Trip saluted, and Skye giggled again.

She traipsed happily to the bar’s hotel exit, and stole a quick look back at Fitz. He was taking a break from staring at Simmons and tracing patterns in the condensation of his untouched drink. Skye sighed, and shook her head. _Your names already go together, Fitz. Stop making her wait_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Skye puts her plot into action, Fitz muses about the hellhole that is this tiki bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, the song playing in the background for this scene is Neon Lights.
> 
> ("Be still my heart 'cause it's freaking out... / You're all I see in all these places, you're all I see in all these faces...")

Hard liquor really had nothing to recommend it, Fitz decided, eyes still watering after what he thought was his third shot. He was sitting at the bar, waiting for Skye and Triplett to return after… well, whatever it was they were doing. They’d given each other significant looks, muttered something about song requests, and disappeared. That was just fine in Fitz’s book, because he was sure he’d had more than enough alcohol for one night. 

Fitz shifted on his stool, watching Jemma stumble gleefully over to the booth after dancing with a large group. He picked up the empty shot glass and twisted it in his palm, wondering how many drinks she’d had, if any. 

Skye had insisted that she, Fitz, and Triplett do shots together, as a team, because you  _always_  have to do shots in a tiki bar. Fitz was very sure this was utter crap, because tiki bars were disgusting, awful places, and he was never going to set foot in one again. 

As he watched Jemma fan herself with her hands, he started listing all of the things that he hated about tiki bars.

_1\. The smell of bamboo wet with salty sea water and spilled tequila._

_2\. The way the lights were never quite the right level; too bright here, by the bar, and too dark by the tables._

_3\. The music’s imbalanced volume, too low and then so loud it drowned out the buzz of conversations_ and _his sense of balance, all at once._

_4\. How all that just made him desperate to hear her voice._

_5\. How ethereal her cheekbones and lips and eyes looked in the weak, reddish booth light, and how she hadn’t looked at him properly in almost two hours._

_6\. How badly he wanted to be near her, near her familiar scent of faint lavender and cotton, to have her smile at him once. To taste tequila on her lips._

He looked down at his shoes, covered with beach bar gunk, and scuffed a toe against a bamboo stool leg. Jemma smiled at him all the time, of course, but right now, when he couldn’t count the grins she’d given to the strangers surrounding her, Fitz yearned for Jemma to be  _Jemma_  again. In the same way he’d needed her to ground him after Hydra had emerged, he needed her now, just to be near her. He was feeling quite drunk, and a little shaky, and nothing else mattered other than watching her. Making sure she was okay, even though he knew she would swat him if he told her that. Because she was always okay, Jemma. She could take care of herself (and of him) better than anyone else.

“Fitz!” 

His pulse slowed as he saw Jemma’s violet ballet flats stop centimeters from his filthy Cons, and he raised his eyes to her face. She was beaming at him, a laugh on the tip of her tongue, and he swallowed. 

“Heeeey, Simmons,” he managed to reply, tongue clumsy in his mouth. 

She squinted at him then, and plucked the shot glass from his hand. “Oh my God, Fitz - you’re drunk!” Jemma laughed, and looked around. “Did Skye do this to you? Does she know you’ve never had more than four pints in a night before?” 

Fitz chose not to answer - not because he was having trouble opening his mouth, of course. It was poor form to blame one’s own drinking on someone else. That’s definitely why he wasn’t going to answer.

Jemma stared at him, then, a wrinkle creasing her forehead. “I think maybe it’s time to take you back to your room. Come on —“ She pulled at his arms and he stood, unsteadily, neatly managing only to stumble a little. “There we go.” Jemma smiled and smoothed out his sleeves, a habit of hers that seemed patently ridiculous while they were surrounded by hula skirts and bathing suits.

She started talking about how  _nice_  everyone here is, and that she’d met this girl who introduced Jemma to all her friends - and Fitz faded out, eyes focusing on the sheen of the bar light on her collarbone. He put his hand on her neck then, thumb along her jawline, and her speech stuttered to a stop. Fitz thought that he should probably look at her face, but he was so aware of the warmth of her skin, and what was probably her pulse under his hand.

“F-Fitz, what —“

“We haven’t talked,” he managed to get out, still not meeting her gaze.

Jemma laughed shakily. “What are you — of  _course_  we’ve talked…”

“No.” He stopped her, tracing his fingers along her jaw and around down her spine. He felt her shiver slightly, and she was both different and the same old Jemma all at once. “No, we haven’t. Not since… not since then.”

She was trying to puzzle him out; he could feel her eyes. After another pause, she took his hand away from her neck and covered it with both of her own. They were a little sticky from her drinks or the tables, and he stared down at his hands in between hers.

“Okay,” she ventured softly. “What do you want to talk about?” 

Suddenly he was hyper aware of the fact that they were surrounded by people, and Triplett or Skye could be watching, and his eyes snapped up to hers, about to take it all back, to tell her he’s just drunk and tired and that tiki bars clearly do not suit him. And then their eyes met, and everything from the day they almost died came rushing back. He was jolted again with the horror of a world without Jemma, her heart, her smile, reminded of his own desperation to save her at any cost, and then he was kissing her, and he wasn’t quite sure how it happened but it was too late now so he might as well go all in.

It was over too quickly, when Jemma pulled away, just barely, just a breath’s length. Fitz licked his lips and tasted something sweet, like soda, and then noticed that her hands were on his chest, that she wasn’t moving away. 

“You’re drunk,” she whispered, her voice low and — he would swear — disappointed. 

“Not that much.” And with that admission disappeared any semblance of plausible deniability, but he wasn’t sure he cared anymore. He let her stare into his eyes, refusing to let himself look away this time, because he still didn’t have the words but maybe he could show her the rest. 

Then Jemma smiled, blazingly, and the knot in Fitz’s stomach dissipated. “Okay then, Fitz. Time to take you to bed.” His eyes widened and she burst into laughter. “No — I’m going to  _put_  you to bed, you great drunkard, and then I’m going to my own room. We can talk tomorrow, when you don’t smell like a —“

“Seedy tiki bar?”

“Something like that.” She pulled him along, through the pulsing crowd, and all he could do was follow her, holding tight onto her hand, as he always would, to the ends of the earth if he had to.

As they emerged from the crowd by the hotel entrance, Fitz saw Skye and Triplett out of the corner of his eye; they were laughing uproariously. The two high-fived, and Triplett slapped something into Skye’s hand. Fitz turned his head to keep watching them, puzzled, but Jemma kept pulling him along and before he knew it he had smacked his head against the glass door he hadn’t seen coming. 

It wasn’t so bad, though, because Jemma stepped close to him and made a fuss, smoothing out the hair on the back of his head. He nodded back that he was fine when she asked, and her lips twitched into a smile again. They stood like that for a moment, just  _seeing_ each other, for the first time in too long, before Jemma dropped her hand from the back of his head and pushed the door all the way open before leading him out. Glass doors and tiki bars, as it turned out, weren’t actually the worst things that could’ve happened to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on my tumblr. Inspired by a dream I had in which chapter 1 happened almost verbatim.


End file.
